


Those who know (understand)

by Rez (lo_rez)



Category: NCIS, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Gift Fic, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-30
Updated: 2007-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:03:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lo_rez/pseuds/Rez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ziva had a brother, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those who know (understand)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vanzetti (Vaznetti)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaznetti/gifts).



> Spoilers through S2 of SPN, S3 of NCIS. For Vanzetti, who asked for Ziva and any Winchester.

"And you killed him then?" Ziva turned the shot glass back and forth in the little ring of water it had sweated onto the bar. The talk had bent somehow to brothers and war from "shills" and "marks" and the art of the con, as this Dean had called it. Poor lighting and the potency of the tequila were factors, surely, but controllable; she chose not to control them quite yet.

The question, while difficult, did not seem complicated, though his story had been that. Dean stared into his glass -- his sixth; he would need help if the bar became unfriendly -- for longer than yes or no would have taken. He shook his head once, twice, again, and his shoulders shook also, like a dog shedding water. (Do not mistake the evasion that means defeat for the one that means victory.)

"I saved him," said Dean. "I goddamn well saved him." He sounded… many things at once; sad, angry, proud, afraid. He stared down for another little while. Then he said, as though just then remembering what she'd told him in return -- an impulsive act; she regretted it already -- "You?"

She tossed back what was left in her own glass, not much. Could have one more, she thought. "Yes," she said. And slid off the barstool (resist by going forward) and twisted to put a knife to the throat of the one who'd been about to lay hands on her.

That one countered her as readily and almost as quickly, and she found herself disarmed and ordered to stand down with a single gesture: one light hand on her shoulder, pressing hardly at all. Perhaps one more drink would not be wise.

"Time to go, Ziva," said Gibbs.

"Whoa," said Dean. "I could use that."

Ziva smiled. She approved of his alertness. (Learn a new thing; then learn to know when to use it.) "We'll go outside," she said to Dean. "I'll show you." The beginner's lecture she could recite in her sleep, including the atrocious Ukrainian accent and pauses for the old _speznat_'s nasty, wet coughs, and she could certainly do it in English with only three drinks in her, but the sightline over Dean's shoulder made her say instead, "Move." He did. He would make a good student, up to a point.

But not quickly enough, and the man behind him put a hand on Dean's shoulder just as Gibbs had done to her, stilling him. She would have expected to see an older man; it took hard, pitiless strength to teach even as much Dean seemed to know about war. But this was a boy, almost, though tall, with wide shoulders and big hands. His untidy hair fell into his eyes, deterring the gaze from without, if not from within.

"Whoa," Dean said again, shrugging the hand away; but he didn't look to see who touched him. This was the brother, then. Who was saved.

Ziva didn't move, and Gibbs for once was patient. "I must go now," she said.

Dean put out his hand. "See you around, Ziva," he said. "And hey, this is my brother. Sam, this is Ziva, don't make her mad. Pretty lady kicked my ass." He was lit up with laughter now; the other things were put away. Perhaps Dean also regretted telling his story.

"That's good to hear," said Sam, giving her his hand in turn. She shook it also, a little amazed; he had a smile so sweet it made her stare, though she knew it was rude, and his grip was light and careful, as though he were afraid of hurting her. She wondered what the price had been to save this one.

"It has been a pleasure." She took her hand back. Sam nodded at her as though she'd said something else. His eyes, she saw, confused the effect of the beautiful smile; she found that she could believe Dean's story, looking at that face. Certainly it was a very strange story. She would remember it.

She went, Gibbs's hand still gentle on her shoulder, steering her toward his vehicle. It wasn't far, and he was in an indulgent mood tonight. That was lucky, because all her bones felt like dry twigs, suddenly, and her body like the brittle, hollowed-out trunk of an old tree. She needed a litre of water and a night's sleep.

She got in and held out her hand; Gibbs gave her back the knife. She returned it to its sheathe under her sleeve and waited for him to start the engine so that she could put down the window and get some air. _Shmu'el_, she thought, looking out the smudged glass, and saw the sweet smile again, and her eyes burned a little. _Shmu'el_, God has listened.

May it be so.

 

[end]

_October 30, 2007_


End file.
